Caught in a Cornish Scandal

by Eleanor Webster

  ‘You are being overly dramatic,’ he said.

  ‘And you are being a hypocrite. Besides, I am not your responsibility. Men always make poor choices and then blame women, as though we had somehow engineered them into it.’

  They stood, glaring at each other. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I made a choice. I am uncertain if it was honourable, but I wanted to make sure we are both safe. And stop the wreckers before they do more harm. If you are so vehemently opposed, we will not use the coins and continue walking without food or transportation.’

  Her frown became more formidable, but after a moment she shook her head. ‘No, that would be foolish. I just hope that you will recognise that the moral high ground is a luxury more easily afforded by the rich.’

  ‘You can be appallingly smug,’ he muttered.

  * * *

  It took longer to near the building than she had hoped, but eventually the foot path reached the road and, after some more trudging, they came to the cross road and a small hostelry.

  ‘So what is the plan exactly?’ she asked as they neared the courtyard. ‘Are you going to give the landlord money and hope he will think us good gentle folk merely down on our luck?’

  ‘We have had an accident. I generally find that a combination of gold and arrogance works to get one out of many situations.’

  He spoke with that easy confidence that Tom had always wanted, but never quite attained. She glanced down at her own rags.

  ‘And what of me? I am quite certain they will think my character questionable...as an unaccompanied female.’

  ‘I would not advertise that.’ He looked over her slim figure. ‘Tie up your hair. Fortunately, you’ll pass easily enough for a street urchin.’

  ‘You are fulsome with your compliments.’

  Millie kept her smile in place. She refused to even acknowledge that momentary hurt that she could be so easily dismissed. Indeed, any flicker of emotion was due to the fact that she was famished, fatigued and therefore less rational than usual.

  Naturally, that kiss had meant nothing to him...or her. It was an aberration, having much more to do with circumstance than any emotion. The kiss had been a celebration of survival, nothing more. Or perhaps the result of proximity.

  Whatever the reason, he doubtless greatly regretted the embrace. As did she, of course.

  The gate whined as they stepped into a small courtyard. It smelled none too clean, a pig and several chickens apparently having free range. She also noted a rather disgruntled-looking donkey, a horse and a cockerel. The latter seemed to have lost several tail feathers, but made up for this with the volume of crowing and by taking several aggressive runs at the donkey.

  The tavern was a stone building with a cobbled path leading towards the front door, as though it had once aspired to greater grandeur than currently demonstrated.

  She halted, biting her lip nervously. ‘Is it possible that the inn or landlord is involved?’ she asked. ‘I have heard that inns play a role in smuggling.’

  ‘I do not know. We will keep our wits about us. And try not to arouse suspicion.’

  ‘That’s your plan?’

  ‘Here!’ He pulled a strip from the lining of his jacket. ‘Tie up your hair.’

  She took the rag. ‘Thank you.’

  They crossed the courtyard and approached the building via the cobbled path. Millie had not thought her feet had the capacity for more pain, but the stones cut into them so painfully that she found it hard not to wince.

  Sam did not take the back exit as she’d anticipated but instead strode to the front, with a brazen swagger. Millie followed. There had been a shift, she realised. In desperation, there had been equality. Sea, hunger and the desolate bogs cared little for wealth or position. But even without clean clothes or money, he had that air of superiority.

  He pushed open the thick oak door and they found themselves in a narrow entrance, which seemed dark after the daylight outside. She had not often been in a tavern and found the onslaught of smells—ale and sweat and food—almost overwhelming.

  A round man with red cheeks fringed with white whiskers looked up from the behind the bar. His expression soured as he scanned both visitors.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’ he asked, his tone sharp.

  ‘Good day. I am Mr Garrett and am pleased to make your acquaintance. I suffered an accident and require sustenance,’ Sam said, with that strong imperious voice.

  The landlord paused, eyes narrowed. Millie watched his gaze scan Sam’s person, lingering for a moment on the tattered suit jacket.

  ‘And how will I be paid then?’

  Sam pushed forward the guinea. ‘I will send my boy around with additional money when we get home.’

  Millie glared, squashing the strong desire to pull a face as an urchin might. The landlord looked at the guinea so dubiously that she half expected him to bite it.

  ‘We will need food and transport,’ Sam said and again she noted that autocratic tone, as though privy to some private script.

  ‘Very well.’ The landlord folded his plump fingers about the guinea, pocketing it his trousers. ‘There is a private room behind the tavern. Go there if you’ve a mind. The boy can eat out back.’

  ‘I—’ Millie started to protest, but Sam gave her a quelling glare.

  ‘The boy can eat with me,’ he said.

  Perhaps it was Sam’s manner, the hope of more guineas or a desire to avoid more people in the kitchen, but the landlord merely nodded. ‘Follow me then.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Sam’s tone was polite, but with no great gratitude, as though the landlord’s compliance was only to be expected.

  ‘I’ll take you through and get Doris to bring you something to drink and eat.’

  They followed him into the back room which had a collection of threadbare furniture, a table with several chairs, a multipaned bay window, and a fire. The landlord poked at the lacklustre blaze before turning to leave. ‘Right then. I’ll send Doris in,’ he said.

  They heard his retreating footsteps. ‘The boy can eat out back,’ Millie hissed, as soon as the door closed. ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, you do look a bit of a ragamuffin and smell a tad off to boot.’

  ‘You’re none too fresh either,’ she muttered.

  Sam sat somewhat gingerly on one of the straight back chairs. ‘I feel like I have had ten rounds at Jackson’s. Thank goodness we are getting fed. I believe I am hallucinating about roast beef.’

  Millie smiled, the thought of food soothing her lingering irritation as she sat on the chair opposite, propping her elbows on the table. ‘And I have been smelling fresh baked bread for the last hour.’

  ‘With nary a bakery in sight. In a few moments you’d be dreaming of Brussels sprouts.’

  ‘What a fate. I am indebted.’

  ‘I rather like that,’ he said, with that lopsided smile. Something in his tone sent a tingle down her spine, making her catch her breath.

  Just then, the door opened and the landlord’s wife entered. She proved to be a round woman rather resembling her husband with florid, apple dumpling cheeks.

  ‘I’m Doris,’ the woman said, putting bread, ale, cheese and cut meat on the table. Millie felt herself salivate, her hands almost vibrating with the need to grab the food, stuffing it into her mouth, manners be damned.

  Indeed, by mutual consent, neither Sam nor Millie spoke. Instead they ate steadily as Doris poured out a tumbler of ale for each and departed.

  ‘I do not think food has ever tasted so good,’ Millie said, at length, leaning back in her chair and sighing with deep contentment.

  ‘I do not think I took the time to taste it.’ Sam also stretched out his legs towards the fire. ‘I wonder if I have enough guineas to convince them to provide us with a bath and fresh clothes.’

  For a moment, the length of a heartbeat, she i
magined him naked. His skin gleamed with moisture. The muscles of his shoulders and arms moved under the skin. She could even see the dampness of his hair at the base of his neck where the golden glow of the lamplight cast intriguing shadows.

  ‘I...um...’ She gulped the last of her ale. ‘It seems unlikely that even your charm could achieve a new wardrobe.’

  ‘Do not underestimate my charms.’ He gave that half-smile, one lip twisting upwards and a dimple flickering.

  She knew he meant nothing more than his ability to use his manner and his privilege to convince the landlord but, even so, she was conscious of her cheeks flushing as she moved uneasily within her chair.

  ‘I hear the landlord or his wife coming so you can try your luck,’ she said, keeping her tone brisk and clipped.

  The door swung open and the landlord appeared. ‘All done, then?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sam said. ‘That was delicious.’

  ‘Aye,’ he agreed. ‘We make our own bread, cheese and sausage here.’

  ‘Then you are to be commended. As soon as I get back to Fowey I will ensure that your kindness is recognised.’

  ‘Fowey is it, then?’ the landlord said, bending over to pick up the coal shovel. He added a lump of coal to the fire, stoking it with the poker. A flurry of sparks flew up the chimney.

  ‘Yes, my sister lives there.’

  ‘Aye. And who be that, then?’

  ‘My sister is Mrs Ludlow.’

  ‘Ludlow, eh? You do not say?’ The landlord put down the poker with a clank, his increased interest and curiosity obvious.

  ‘And would she be married to a Mr Jason Ludlow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The landlord went to the door, moving with increased speed as he shouted into the nether regions of the inn, ‘Doris, this is Mrs Ludlow’s brother. What do you think of that, then?’

  Doris appeared so fast that Millie wondered if she had been waiting outside or whether the news had made her run along the hallway. Either way, she seemed to bristle with an unexpected pent-up excitement.

  ‘You do not say?’ Her eyes grew round, like bright buttons set within the pouches of her skin. Again, Millie felt that Doris displayed an interest and eagerness which did not seem sensible in the situation.

  Sam must have thought that, too, because his body stiffened. ‘What is it? Are you acquainted with my sister or her husband? Have you some news?’

  ‘It is not like us to gossip...’ the landlord said.

  ‘Indeed, no, we always keep our customers’ confidences...’

  ‘Except neither Mr or Mrs Ludlow are your customers, at present,’ Sam said, leaning forward. ‘And I am.’

  Husband and wife glanced towards each other, although Millie did not know if they were hesitant to speak or merely engaged in a competition to see who would speak first.

  The landlord apparently won. He straightened, cleared his throat and threw back his head as though about to recite a Shakespearean monologue.

  ‘Mrs Ludlow is currently arrested,’ he said.

  Chapter Six

  Whatever Sam had been expecting, it was not this. He stared at the man for a moment, not quite comprehending the words. He felt a chill that began inside and seemed to paralyse his muscles so that he could not breathe.

  ‘Arrested? That is not credible. What for?’

  ‘The murder of Mr Ludlow.’

  ‘Murder? Jason is dead?’

  The cold tightened, vise-like. It gripped at his heart and his lungs so that each exhalation hurt and felt like an effort of will. His dream, the blurred image of his brother-in-law, flickered before him.

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ the landlord said.

  ‘Well,’ his wife corrected, ‘more precisely he disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared?’ Sam asked.

  ‘His body has not been found,’ she explained, adding ghoulishly, ‘Yet.’

  ‘But several of his personal effects have washed up on shore,’ the landlord added. ‘Leading people to think that ’e’s dead.’ To emphasise this point, he lifted his plump finger and made a movement across his throat, much as a school boy might.

  ‘And they think his wife was involved?’ Sam managed to ask, pushing out the words.

  ‘Their relationship had been...’ The landlord paused as though gauging Sam’s reaction.

  Sam lifted one eyebrow. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Fraught.’

  Sam stood, the movement so abrupt that his chair banged into the wall behind him. The need to escape the curious eyes of the landlord and lady overwhelmed. Indeed, their earlier gossipy nosiness now seemed laced with malevolence. The smells of ale, food and tobacco no longer comforted, but seemed to suffocate.

  Throwing down a guinea, he strode from the room, pushing open the door and almost sprinting down the narrow corridor and outside, into the fresh air beyond. The outer door clattered behind him. He leaned against the stone wall, staring blindly at the small courtyard, while gulping the air like a man drowning.

  The stone exterior felt rough and bumpy against his spine. Dazedly, he watched the cockerel strut in a circular manner about the yard and the donkey gaze at it apprehensively.

  What had happened that night? Why couldn’t he remember? And would he ever?

  ‘Frances couldn’t murder or hurt anyone,’ he muttered. ‘They are all mad.’

  But then what had happened to Jason? Where was he?

  Again, Sam remembered his dream and Jason’s face twisted with anger. He swallowed, fearing he might cast up his accounts. Could there be truth to his dream? Was it indeed not a dream, but a memory? Had they fought? Had some accident occurred? He could not have hurt his sister’s husband in cold blood—he had never hurt a fellow human—but it was only logical that he might have had some involvement. It was too much of a coincidence that he had almost drowned and Jason had disappeared on the same night.

  He pushed his head against the wall. What had happened? Anything, however awful, must be better than this blankness—this endless, awful questioning.

  ‘But Frances could not have done it. She couldn’t have done it,’ he muttered, so oblivious to his surroundings that he was shocked by Millie’s brisk response.

  ‘Indeed not, I can think of many others with greater motivation,’ she said, bracingly.

  He turned around, staring at her strong features, the firm jaw and straight brows as though confused by her presence.

  ‘And what about me? What if I did something to him?’

  ‘You are a man beset by violent rages?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then it is entirely more likely that you both fell into the water doing something foolish or that you were attacked by someone who bore a grudge against him.’

  ‘He was so angry in the dream.’ He squeezed his eyes tight shut to block out the image.

  ‘If you were both attacked, I presume he was cross.’

  Again, he was struck by the woman’s unflappability. She seemed as calm as she would have been discussing seasonal vegetables. There were no hysterics and no disposition to fall into the vapours, merely a bracing common sense.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You are right. There is no point jumping to conclusions.’

  The door opened and the landlord emerged, his wife behind him, curiosity evident in their expressions. He wanted to avoid them, but also knew a sudden desperation to learn more or, at the very least, everything they knew.

  ‘Thought I should tell you, the coach should be here in fifteen minutes, or so. Stops regular like,’ the landlord said, ambling forward with the rolling gait of a sailor.

  ‘It took two of you to deliver this message?’ Millie snapped.

  Sam ignored her, stepping forward almost as though motivated by a force beyond his control. ‘What—why—what items washed up? Why do they think him de
ad?’

  ‘His monogrammed handkerchief,’ the landlady said.

  ‘That is hardly conclusive,’ Millie said. ‘I have dropped my handkerchief a thousand times and I am still alive and well.’

  ‘Aye,’ the landlord agreed. ‘Aye and so I can see. Except his pocket watch was also found. Besides, the big difference between you and ’im is that you’re here and he ain’t.’

  ‘Lord have mercy!’ his wife interrupted, her rosy cheeks flushing to a more hectic hue and her button eyes sparkling. She bustled past her husband, stepping close to Millie and waving a finger in her face. ‘Lord have mercy. I knew as soon as you started talking about handkerchiefs that you ain’t no lad. Running around in trousers. Spending time with gentlemen what have murderous relatives. I have never seen the like. This is a respectable place, I’ll have you know!’

  Sam watched the rhythmic wag of her finger. The words washed over him, waves of sounds, negligible against the discord of his own thoughts. The beat of his heart was like a tuneless chant. Dead...dead...dead...

  And then, sharp against the blur that was his mind, Sam remembered that Jason had been wearing a gold watch. At dinner. Sam was certain of it. He could see the gold chain bright against the waistcoat.

  ‘He had a watch,’ Sam said.

  He felt three pairs of eyes turn to him.

  Jason had also been drenched in his dream. Sam pictured his angry face. He saw the dark hair and lank, sodden strands.

  ‘He was wet,’ Sam said.

  Thoughts chased and bounced through his mind. A fight? An accident? Again his brother-in-law’s image flickered before his mind’s eyes: angry, drenched, hair plastered to his forehead.

  ‘He was angry at me. I—I am sure of it. I must know something. It cannot be a coincidence. I saw him...’

  Millie lunged at him, pressing a kiss on his lips. The move was so unexpected, he lost his balance, stumbling back against the wall while clutching her tight to him.

  ‘Heavens above! I’ll not have this! This is not to be tolerated. We run a respectable house and I’ll not have goings on. Dressed like a man. And then carrying on! Off with you. Wait out front. I’ll douse you with water if I have to. A respectable house this is. A respectable house!’ After this rush of speech, Doris flapped her apron, making a clucking sound.